for the call of the running tide
by fluggerbutter
Summary: He bites his lip as he looks at the water and suddenly you hope he'll never have to learn what heartbreak means.


He's half on top of you, asleep, his head buried in the crook of your neck and his hand curled just beneath your breastbone. Something about this—maybe the familiar sound of the ocean, the sight of the waves—the little sigh he makes like he's dreaming of home—makes you feel like crying.

You press your lips to the top of his head: not a kiss, not yet, just your closed mouth in his perfect hair. You would wonder how it came to this, but you know how.

Your story is not a linear narrative. it is not moving picture perfect. In your head, it looks like this:

You, six years old, on the floor of Mack's grandfather's house. Your eyes light up when the surfer boy comes on screen.

The first time you see him, for real, so close you can touch him. He makes the whole beach brighter.

You are standing on your surfboard in the middle of nowhere and the ocean is dead. You knew. You paddled all the way out here fully aware there wasn't a wave to be caught.

Your heart leaps when you see him again, when he runs straight for you and throws himself into your arms and the sand is everywhere, in your eyes, in your trunks, in the crooks of your knees.

The awe in his gaze when you show him your boards, the sincerity of his praise, the way he brushes his fingers against your arm a moment later.

When Devon teasingly asked you if you'd found a summer replacement for him, you said _Yes—he's the best surfer I know—and prettier than you,_ you'd joked, though of course it was true. It wasn't until after the letter was posted that you realised you hadn't mentioned Mack once.

He speaks to you of Lela and his words are crushing and beautiful. Until now, fear was foreign to him, and doubt, sorrow, anger, pain—all things mortally, woundingly human—but he feels them now, and you ache as you try to withstand the brunt of his every epiphany. In the end he has to take it, learn from it, become softer and sweeter for it—he bites his lip as he looks at the water and suddenly you hope he'll never have to learn what heartbreak means. Almost, almost you wish you'd never met. You just want him so much to be happy, to clasp Lela's hands in yours and make her promise that she will never let his laughter fade like that again. That she will protect him—wipe away the wetness of his bright eyes—hold him close whether or not the surf is dangerous that day; kiss him gently, lick the ocean from his lips and brush the salt from his lashes.

You stare. He's the one whose hands you want to clasp. You want to pull him gently nearer, rest your forehead against his, tell him it will be okay even if nothing is certain anymore.

You flee back inside and he finds you swaying in front of the couch, staring a little dazedly at the scarred, sunbleached floor.

"Brady?" his hand finds your arm, holds you steady. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," you say, as you try and fail to laugh. "It's cool. everything's—" you drop to the couch, practically dragging him with you, "chill."

He giggles nervously. "You don't sound chill. you sound—" he falters. "Worried?"

You meet his gaze beneath your lowered brow and then look down at your arm, which he's still clutching tight. "No, I'm fine." Your voice pitches too high on the last word.

He watches you carefully and you see the gears turning in his lovely head. "You're... lying." He frowns suddenly, sharply, like the motion hurts, or like he isn't quite sure what he's doing. "I don't understand. Brady, why would you lie to me?"

"I wouldn't! I mean, not without—reason, I guess—I don't know—it's just—I'm feeling a lot of, um." You glance down at his hand on your arm. "Feelings. Right now. Weird ones. And I don't really know—what to do."

He shifts even closer, so that you can feel all the warmth of him against your side; you nearly choke on your next breath. "Oh," he says, very gently.

"You're really pretty," you blurt, and bury your face in your hands. "...dude."

His touch slips away. Your heart sinks, but it's nothing you weren't expecting.

And then he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "I know that," he laughs.

You lift your head to gape at him. "No, I mean like—I—" Your voice weakens. "I think I'm—"

 _Fallin' for ya._

You want to put your mouth to those words, but your throat is sewn shut, and you just let him hold you while you stare at your own flip flops with your eyebrows knotted.

"I don't want you to go," you say.

His face splits into a grin, wide and white and sparkling. His easy joy is like a punch to the gut. "Well, that works out, because I don't want to leave." He nestles his chin in your hair. You can still smell all the wind and salt of him.

"Tanner," you say.

"Bra-ady," he murmurs, your name half a melody on his tongue.

"What if you have to?"

There is a long, long stretch of almost silence where all you can hear is the lap of the surf on the sand.

Finally, he giggles, softly, self-consciously. "So what?" He takes your hand for a moment and squeezes it tightly. "I'll always come back."

And now he's lying curled above you, asleep, and you are worse for the wear. Your love for him is as stark and great and painful as your love was for Mack at the start of the summer; contradictions be damned, it is still wonderful and it still _hurts_.

You run your hand through his hair and realize with a shiver that it is finally starting to get ruffled. You wish you could just let him sink deeper, deeper still, into this world and into your arms without fear of him drowning, but this thing between you is stars crossed and seas at high tide, fleeting and imperfect.

He sighs once more, and the sun descends over the pink horizon.


End file.
